


Embers

by TobuIshi



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pam/Bertrude if you squint, Sava asked for campfire and chill and I did my best, Supergiant Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 04:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobuIshi/pseuds/TobuIshi
Summary: In the darkness beside the Blackwagon, two outsiders recognize the common shadows and guiding lights in each other. (Honestly, there's nothing like bonding over terrible booze.)





	Embers

The windows of the Blackwagon glow brightly, spilling golden light out into the darkness. The muffled sounds of talk and laughter filter out through the rickety walls to fade into the eerie quiet of Cinderroot.

Out here, everything is mist and shadows, sheltered under the creaking branches of vast and ancient trees. Beside the dying campfire, a few empty pots sit stacked and waiting for the morning. The lingering embers crackle and pop, tossing bright fragments into the air.

It is a chill night, but Pamitha Theyn is a Harp, and her metabolism runs hot and fast. Her belly is full for now, and the remaining warmth from the fire is a pleasant luxury, not a necessity. Still, the Downside offers few luxuries, and she is not the type to refuse a fleeting pleasure. She can wait to wing up to her colder perch atop the wagon until the flames burn down.

For now, she sits and idly watches the coals shift and settle, rippling with red and yellow heat in tiny shimmering waves. She takes a swig from the trusty bottle of moonshine at her side, and hisses softly through her teeth at the familiar burn.

Out in the shadows, somewhere under the trees, something hisses back.

Pamitha pricks up her ears, shifting her relaxed posture ever so slightly. Her grip tightens on the hard glass neck of the bottle, as she squints out into the shadows, struggling to see...

One shadow detaches itself from the others, and slithers closer, until the firelight touches and illuminates it. She recognizes that hunched yet looming figure: the bog-crone, Bertrude, their newest and perhaps second-most ill-tempered recruit.

Pamitha settles back again, not quite relaxed, but no longer on high alert, as the crone approaches the wagon. She cradles a basket under one arm, and her expression has softened from the harsh scowl that she wore this afternoon, when Volfred was presenting his lengthy arguments in her favor as she stood awkwardly before them all.

Hmm. Whatever else she may be, Pamitha remembers that sense of being on trial all over again. Might as well put her best foot forward.

“Good evening, darling,” she sings out, cheerfully. “You _do_ look pleased with yourself. Find what you needed?”

The crone’s sunken eyes narrow, and she pauses in her tracks and peers across the campfire at her. The flickering light casts the pits of her eyes into deep shadow, producing an eerie sense that she is staring right through her. Pamitha lifts her chin and boldly stares back.

“Nnnrrghhh,” Bertrude grumbles at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Thou dost not fear us as thou should, Harp. Thy companions are wiser than thee.”

Pamitha clucks her tongue. “That, or they just haven’t spent much time around your kind. I have, you know. I fought more than a few of you, back on the Bloodborder. You seem like a decent sort, compared to some. That Udmildhe, for one....ugh, now there’s a chilly fish if I’ve ever met one.” She gives an exaggerated shudder.

Still stopped in mid-slither, Bertrude seems on the verge of moving on. Then – quite unexpectedly – she curls her tail under herself and settles back on the curve of it, as comfortably as a human crossing her legs.

Pamitha blinks. Actual companionship, beyond a passing greeting, was the last thing she expected at this hour of the night, especially from this most unexpected of quarters. She’s not sure whether or not she likes the idea, but Bertrude seems to be settling right in.

Putting her foraging basket aside, the crone nods at the bottle of moonshine where it glimmers in the grass.

“And didst thou steal that flagon from one of our kind?” she asks. “We know the work of a bog-crone when it lieth before us.”

“Oh, no, darling,” Pamitha says, shaking her head. “ _That_ was an honest purchase...or as honest as any purchase can be, down here. Care to have a look?”

She scoops it up and holds it out across the flames, and Bertrude stretches out a claw and accepts it. The smooth curve of its side reflects the reddish firelight as she turns it this way and that, examines it, uncorks it, sniffs the vapors and pulls a face.

“A brew most foul,” she declares, narrow lips twisted up in a grimace. “And thou quaffeth it for a night-cap, dost thou, Harp? Dost thou seek a gruesome shortening of thy sentence here?”

Pamitha shakes her head more vehemently this time. “Not at all,” she protests, keeping her voice light. “At least, not these days. I assure you, darling, I’ve found a new purpose down here. A new lease on life, you might say! Quite unexpected, really, but there you have it.”

The crone’s face is half-wreathed in shadow and difficult to see, but from her momentary silence, Pamitha suspects that her expression is skeptical.

“Sandalwood has told us of thy past,” Bertrude rumbles, with the slightest hint of a hiss in her deep voice. “Thy checkered history...and thy sister.”

“Has he, really?” The Harp’s full lips twitch up at the corners. “Why, that stiff-necked old gossip!”

Bertrude makes a sharp, harsh noise, rearing back slightly. For a moment, Pamitha thinks she’s offended, or perhaps choking; and then she recognizes the sound for what it is – a startled laugh.

“Come now, darling,” she says, “was it really that funny?”

“We had thought thee all in awe of him.” The crone’s face has settled back into its habitual grim expression, but her serpentines still wriggle slightly, as if in lingering amusement.

“Oh, our fearless leader has earned respect from us, I won’t lie to you there.” Pamitha leans forward, conspiratorially. “But, tell me truly, darling. Doesn’t he just make you itch to tweak his tail feathers, sometimes? So to speak.”

“The urge doth come and go, indeed,” Bertrude admits. “We have known Sandalwood these many centuries, and he is dear to us... Still, we doth find that he is...improved by a slight tweaking now and then. Lest he grow insufferable. As may be said of many of us, nnrrggghhh.”

Pamitha feigns dismay, one wing pressed to her breast. “Oh, dear, I hope you aren’t implying _I’m_ insufferable?”

“Nay, fledgling, only impertinent,” Bertrude grumbles. But she still seems amused.

“True enough,” Pamitha concedes. She sighs, settling back to gaze up at the stars. “Do you know,” she says, “I think you give him far too much leeway? A well-established lady like yourself, with a successful business to run, larking off into the middle of nowhere at his beck and call to play silly games with our collection of misfits...I don’t see why you let him jerk you around like this, darling.”

The bog-crone snorts. Briefly puzzled, Pamitha drops her gaze from the sky, and finds herself pinned by that inscrutable stare again.

“We suspect,” Bertrude says, drily, “that between us, thou and we may know a thing or two about pivoting our lives on the needs of another.”

Pamitha coughs – damn that Volfred! – and attempts to cover it with a burst of self-deprecating laughter. “Oh, that!” she says, lightly. “A silly habit, better outgrown. I’m working on it. One day at a time, as they say.”

“We would drink to that,” Bertrude admits, then frowns at the bottle still gripped in her claw and says, “But not with this phial of poison.”

And just like that, she holds it out at arm’s length and matter-of-factly upends it. The green liquid inside streams out, splashing into the grass with a nasty hiss.

“Hey!” Pamitha lunges forward, her poise abruptly shattered, reaching for her precious moonshine. “Stop that!”

The crone leans away from her, keeping the coals of the fire between them as she holds the bottle out of her reach. The moonshine is still spilling out, spattering the ground and making the grass hiss and wither. A few drops splash onto the coals, sending up tongues of sickly greenish flame.

“That’s _mine,”_ Pamitha snarls, her pleasant façade cracking as she reaches for her booze, “I _paid for that!_ Give it back! _”_

With a shrug, Bertrude tosses it back to her, glass tumbling and winking in the light. Pamitha snatches it out of the air as it falls, and clutches it protectively to her chest, glaring at the crone.

“Peace, Harp,” Bertrude says, evenly. “Look to thy spirits, and fear not. We wished only to test their properties. They proveth most interesting.”

Confused, Pamitha peers at the bottle, and lets out a little gasp. The meager pool left in the bottom is already welling up to refill it, as though pumped in through some tiny invisible pipe.

“Well, now,” she murmurs, impressed, and gives it a little shake to watch the rising liquid slosh. “They told me this thing would never run dry, but I admit, I never dared test it quite so...literally, myself.”

“Dost thou fear to be without it?” Bertrude asks, watching her with a spark of shrewd curiosity in those hooded eyes. Pamitha flinches, then hates herself for flinching.

“Oh, you know,” she shoots back, airily. “A little something before bed does wonders for a good night’s sleep—”

“Thy reliance on that rotgut will send thee to an early grave.” She says it flatly, and uncompromisingly.

Pamitha curls her lip. Why won’t she just accept her careless facade and leave her alone? “Judgmental old hag,” she mutters.

Bertrude rears up on her tail, until the campfire throws her shadow across the trees at the edge of the clearing. Pamitha instinctively shrinks back, just a bit, in spite of herself. “Nnnrrrghhh, and art _thou_ as tranquil and unjudging as Mother Triesta, who sought to bear up the world upon her wings?” the crone rumbles.

“Ha.” The absurdity almost makes her smile. “No, I’m a bitter, dried-out thing, and you know it. Don’t you, darling?” Her playful mask has never been especially convincing upon close examination, and this Bertrude seems intent on examining everything in the Downside. “Go on,” Pamitha prompts, like prodding a bruise. “Don’t stop being honest now. One bitter old thing to another, hmm?”

The crone doesn’t seem insulted, this time. “Thou hast the right of it, Harp,” she says. “And we shall say, honestly... There is no need for thee to pickle thyself further in this noisome embalming fluid, unless thou findeth true enjoyment in it.” Her tone hints that she considers this doubtful. She pauses, then steeples her long fingers and leans forward. “We have art in the making of talismans,” she explains, “such as would more gently grant thee a night’s dreamless sleep.”

Pamitha considers it. The idea is tempting, but... “What’s in it for you, darling?” she wonders aloud. “A well-rested flyer for dearest Volfred’s Plan?”

“We will not insult thy perspicacity by denying such hopes,” Bertrude admits. “But...consider it also a gesture of...fellow-feeling. As thou sayeth. From one bitter old thing to another.”

Pamitha arches an eyebrow. “You expect me to trust you? Just like that?”

Bertrude only stares silently at her across the flames, motionless except for the writhing of the serpentines that frame her gaunt face. Finally, Pamitha gives up and begins to laugh.

“All right, all right,” she says, rueful. “I may be a former Highwing, but I’m not too proud to admit when I’m being a hypocrite. Go ahead and make me a trinket, darling. I wouldn’t dare say no to a pretty bauble from a grand lady like yourself.”

The crone nods curtly, evidently satisfied. “It is a start,” she pronounces. “We will not leave thee reliant upon it, Harp. We give thee our word. There are certain natural arts we can assist thee in learning, to regulate the breath and calm the mind...”

A rush of vivid, unexpected memories knocks Pamitha’s heart sideways. Training alongside her sisters, her blood-sister, strengthening their force of will against the invasions of the enemy. _Focus, Pamitha, or you won’t last a minute against that Commonwealth scum!_ She steadies herself with an effort.

“Yes,” she murmurs, faintly. “Yes, I think that might do nicely...” Does she know? She can’t possibly know. Even Volfred has never asked for details of the Highwings’ basic training regimen.

But it’s true, she’s badly out of practice. That sort of thing was familiar to her once. Perhaps it could be, again.

Bertrude has risen from her comfortable curl and gathered up her basket. “Tomorrow, then.” She hesitates next to Pamitha, and reaches down to rest her clawed hand on her shoulder. Her skin is neither cold nor slimy, but warm to the touch and surprisingly soft, like well-worn supple leather. “Find what rest thou can, in the meanwhile.”

Still a bit thrown, Pamitha tries to pull herself together. “And will you solve all our troubles, then?” she can’t resist jesting. “Gentle Trudy, healer of broken hearts and shepherdess of lost souls? Perhaps you’re the real daughter of Triesta among us.”

“Nay,” the crone replies, flatly. “We do not see ourselves in every callow rites-conductor that Sandalwood parades before us.”

Pamitha manages a saucy smirk. “Only some?”

To her surprise, Bertrude cracks a grin in return. It softens the harsh lines of her face tremendously. “Only some,” she agrees, and glides away up the steps of the Blackwagon. The door creaks shut behind her.

The windows of their peculiar almost-home have gone dark by now, all the glowing candles snuffed out; and the lively chatter of voices has faded away into sleep. Starlight gleams silver between the branches of the towering trees overhead. The campfire has nearly finished settling into ashes.

Pamitha prods the near-lifeless coals with a stick, prompting a dull orange flare. She reaches for the bottle at her side, reflexively...then hesitates.

Then she scoffs at herself, and tips it up to her lips, gulping down a slosh of liquid. It burns harshly all the way down, like a mouthful of embers, just as it always has.

Despite herself, she remembers the steadying warmth of Bertrude’s hand.

Ah, well, Pamitha decides. Whenever Bertrude finishes making her enchanted trinket, they might as well try things her way. Bog-crone witchery can’t be worse than Pamitha’s current strategy, such as it is. And, really, what more does she have to lose?

For that matter, she thinks, as she wings her way up onto the roof of the Blackwagon, she might even have something to gain for once. The Reader is a fine listener, and that dear silly cur is as good a drinking companion as she could hope for, and Hedwyn is friendly enough, in his own gentle way...but Pamitha had just about given up on finding a real kindred spirit among the Nightwings.

Who would have guessed? She smiles wryly, settling into her feathers for the night. Perhaps there’s some measure of kinship to be found here, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For Sava (snakeshax-six-shoulders @ tumblr) for the 2018 Supergiant Secret Santa exchange.


End file.
